colossus

A colossal child sits outside, with sand in its lungs, coughing up storms. It has cinnamon for hair, and a stomach made of glass as it makes its way on dusty shoes and turtles on its back. And it went around collapsing all the towers it could see, built by man, built by time, always bound to kiss the rubble. All his fingers move like clay, when it rains his touch gets sticky, and the rocks that hold the towers high are difficult to break. As it tries, its tears start pouting, and the salt begins to dry, thus encrusting a thick layer on its eyes, until it sleeps.